


Today

by SimplyEssa



Series: Anew [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Violence, Brief thoughts of suicide, Concussions, Electricity, Gen, Graphic descriptions of violence, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Little bit of comfort, Lots of torture, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Bile, Missing Limbs, Missing Teeth, More Hurt Than Comfort, Pain, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Whump, emotional torture, kind of, like im not kidding this is literally a torture fic, loss of appetite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 11:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19106053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyEssa/pseuds/SimplyEssa
Summary: After a few more seconds, the guard dropped his arm, and in turn, all of him, on to the cold, stone floor.Whether it be the impact of his already throbbing head hitting the hard floor, or the sedatives weighing his eyelids down and dragging darkness into his vision, he didn’t know. However, he did know— no, hoped— that his team would come for him as soon as they could.They wouldn’t just leave him behind, right?





	Today

**Author's Note:**

> okay theres a lot of italics in this but i cant use google docs and change stuff to italics on ao3 because it screws up the entire format. it tends to be that where you /think/ there are italics, there probably is
> 
> im really sorry!!
> 
> without further adue (ado?), part two!! while you dont need to read part one, its slightly recommended.
> 
> unbetad, any typos on me and my shitty phone
> 
> enjoy!

Keith woke to pain.

His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his knee stung painfully despite him not moving it— at least, he didn’t think it was moving. He had yet to open his eyes, but… with the headache he had, he was scared to open his eyes to the bright Castle lights he was familiar with.

His left arm felt like it had been crushed with a sledge hammer, then blown back up by a balloon before being crushed again, but this time, with truck. His ribs groaned ominously every time he sucked in a painful, rattling breath. Not only that, but he couldn’t feel his left leg, at all.

In short, he was probably hit with a bus.

Three times.

“C… C’ran,” he manages, voice scraping past his throat in an effort to speak. It’s nearly paralyzing, the pain it causes to speak, but he needs to know what’s going on, and why he can’t hear anyone. “C’ran..?”

“Look at that,” an unfamiliar voice says, voice mocking and a little cocky, “The thing’s calling out for it’s team. Pathetic.”

He feels a frown pull at his lips. Who is that? Where’s his friends?

With much effort, he manages to pry open one eyelid. It felt like they were stuck together with glue, but at least the dull, violet lights didn’t make his head hurt more when he—

Wait; purple?

There wasn’t a singular speck of purple on the Castle, asides from Shiro’s arm, Allura’s earrings, and his own knife. He assumed it was because of the whole Galra being purple and loving purple thing, though he never knew. Maybe Allura was just a fan of blue and white, and purple didn’t exactly blend well with those two colours.

So… where was he?

“Sedate him,” the same voice commands, suddenly. Keith’s frown grows as his eye slides around the room, trying to find the source of the voice. “Give him a dosage heavy enough that it will keep him down until Haggar arrives.”

Haggar?

Haggar was that witch Zarkon used to try and kill them every time they fought. If Haggar was coming to see him, then—

Oh, god.

The Galra had captured him, somehow.

When he headd approaching footsteps, the voices from before finally registered. He couldn’t let them do anything to him. He needed to hold out long enough for his team to come get him.

“No,” he manages, voice cracking. The guard doesn’t slow, and he feels a whimper slip out when his arm is grabbed and yanked upwards, dragging his entire body with it. He struggled as hard as he could, but in the end, the guards cast iron grip did not relent.

“Stop,” he wheezed, his voice loud despite the wobble to it. The guard, yet again, did not relent his grip, but flipped him around, pulling a weak cry from Keith. He pulled a syringe out of seemingly nowhere before smoothing the pad of his finger over his inner elbow before plunging the glowing, green syringe into his elbow.

He tried to thrash around, kick the guard with his mostly uninjured leg, but whatever they put in his veins was working fast; he could already feel the energy in his body being sapped, despite only a small amount of time passing.

After a few more seconds, the guard dropped his arm, and in turn, all of him, on to the cold, stone floor.

Whether it be the impact of his already throbbing head hitting the hard floor, or the sedatives weighing his eyelids down and dragging darkness into his vision, he didn’t know. However, he did know— no, hoped— that his team would come for him as soon as they could.

They wouldn’t just leave him behind, right?

—=—

The next time he woke up, everything that was previously hurting him had officially stopped hurting him— asides from a slight ringing to his ears and a soft pounding in his head.

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, glad it didn’t tear his head apart like he thought it might with the headache, and looked around, studying his surroundings. It was fairly dark to be the Castle infirmary, but… it was probably the night cycle.

Even if it was the night cycle, though, they tend to wait around the infirmary and camp out until whoever’s in a pod gets out, so… where are they?

It took his eyes a few more minutes of confusion before they were able to adjust to the dark setting, and what he saw sent a huge wave of disappointment through his chest— one he’d never admit to. He was not in the Castle’s infirmary like he thought; he was in the same Galra prison cell he was in before. He recognized it, and he doubts they moved him when he was basically helpless in that cell, anyways— unless they needed him to be closer to Haggar.

But if he were still here, that meant his team didn’t come for him, like he thought.

Despite what he had thought earlier— no, wanted— when he felt like he was dying, he was glad they didn’t come for him. If they had come to save him, as nice as that would be, there was a likely chance they could have been captured as well as him.

Not only that, but given the sorry state his lion was left in and the cry he had heard from Pidge not long after, he doubts they could’ve beaten three cruisers and dozens of fighter jets without Voltron.

With that in mind, he’s left wondering if his team is even alive.

The last thing he remembers before falling unconscious in space was everyone screaming for Pidge and another ion blast going off.

...Did that mean Pidge was captured, too?

If Pidge was here too, then that meant that the team would come for them, because they couldn’t function without two Paladins. He really, really wishes they wouldn’t, but he knows it isn’t really an option. While he’s replaceable, Pidge isn’t. They only have one pilot for the Green Lion, and it would take too long to find another.

He sighed to himself and shifted against the hard floor. He was glad that the Galra hadn’t stripped him completely, despite the circumstances. He would’ve been mortified if he had woken up completely nude. Feeling vulnerable in just a flight suit was nothing compared to being actually nude in front of a bunch of aliens who wanted him dead or for information.

Now that he thought about it, he really, really hoped Pidge hadn’t been touched at all; if she was even here in the first place.

—=—

He’s sitting there for hell knows how long before a wall opens, and four sentries filter in. He frowns, forcing himself to get off of the wall he had been previously leaning on. He keeps his hands close, fists tight by his sides, and watches them make a line in front of the opening that has yet to close.

They’re probably there to keep him from escaping before whoever’s supposed to be here gets here.

He snorts silently, a small smirk grazing his lips. Have the Galra not learned? They’ll need far more than four measly sentries to keep him down, especially since they’ve left him uncuffed and healed him sometime after they had knocked him out.

Slowly, stretching out stiff muscles as he goes, he gets to his feet. The sentires glowing, red eyes don’t waver— not that he expected them to— as he cracks his knuckles. They’re probably only programmed to attack him if he makes a move, which, he will be doing, soon. Very soon.

Keeping his moves slow, calculated, he inches forwards. Having his knife would be amazing, and he’d be able to take them all down fairly quickly, but he supposes his fists will have to do.

Once he gets close enough, he tightens his fist, then raises it, a scowl on his face and —

Agony sparks through his neck and travels throughout the course of his body. A scream tears itself from his throat and he feels his knees hit the ground, sending a sharp pain through them. It’s drowned out by the electricity searing his bones, muscles; his everything.

And just as soon as it’s started, it stops.

He wheezes, legs still uselessly flailing as he presses his hands to his chest, trying to cool the flames that are still lingering. It takes him a moment to feel the liquid sliding down his chin; down his thighs.

Oh, god. He hasn’t lost control of his bladder since he was six.

Hot shame burns in his stomach and humiliated tears pool in his eyes and he clenches his jaw, sniffling harshly. He just pissed his pants, in the middle of his cell, because he was hurt. How pathetic was that?

“Look at it,” a voice he recognizes speaks up, and there’s a sharp kick to his side that sends him gagging. His limbs curl into himself of their own accord to try and escape the pain. “How pathetic.”

It stung, knowing someone else believed it.

“Uh, sir?” Another voice speaks up as Keith gingerly peels his eyes open. There’s two full blooded Galra in front of him, one dawning a black box with a little glowing sphere of purple at the end. The other one— the one that just spoke— dawned a clipboard, and… a pair of cuffs. Great. “It appears to be leaking.”

“What does?” The one with the box asked, frowning down at him as he delivered another sharp jab to Keith’s abdomen. He groaned, curling into even tighter of a ball as they inspected him.

“The Paladin,” the other one voiced, sounding slightly concerned. Weird.

“Oh,” the one with the box breathed, and then laughed. It sounded like the stereotypical villainous laughs Lance tried to recreate during meals. “Don’t worry. It appears to be a bodily function triggered by the electricity.”

“I see.”

After a few more minutes of silence and glaring from Keith, the one with the box speaks up, a wicked smile lighting up his face.

“Shall we watch it happen again, Paladin?”

Keith’s eyes widen in what he will refuse to admit is fear, but he manages to spit a wad of saliva at his feet.

The guard glares at him before the agony starts again.

—=—

When he’s finally pulled from his own head and world of searing pain, he’s lost count of how many times it’s happened.

After the first time, they had asked him a few questions about Voltron; the basic torture questions, like “Where is Voltron?” or “How can we destroy your Castle?”

The things Allura had previously warned them about.

Every time, he refused to answer their questions, and every time, they shocked him a little longer and made it a little more painful. He had passed out at least three times already, but they had woken him up each time with a bucket full of something green that was absolutely boiling.

His eyelids finally slid when the aftershocks faded, but when he heard the clanging of a bucket, he forced them back open.

Whatever they planned must’ve worked: the clanging went away and the cell was silent again.

There were a few minutes where the only sound in the cell was Keith’s wheezy breaths while they waited; while they watched him. The stares they gave him with their glowing yellow eyes made his skin crawl and muscles reflexively pull away due to fight or flight. He knew he’d get nightmares from the sheer stares alone.

Another moment passed before the one with the remote control strolled forwards and grabbed Keith’s chin between two of his claws.

He swallowed hard, biting down the urge to bite him or rip away. He wouldn’t try to get shocked more than necessary.

“There’s nowhere to run, Paladin,” the guard whispers, fangs glinting in the dim lighting of the cell. Another claw dragged down his cheek, faking comfort.

He grimaces, trying to pull away, but the touch suddenly turns tight and painful. The claws bit into his skin, tearing it away, and he barely bit back a cry as blood began to dribble down his cheek. His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, trying his best to ignore the blood slowly dripping down his cheek.

“Like I said,” the guard repeats, pulling his hand away, claws dripping in crimson, “There’s nowhere to run. You have nowhere to go, worthless little Paladin. If those other pesky Paladins had wanted you, they’d have tried to get you already. But, unfortunately, they left the galaxy dobashes ago, once they realized we had you. Unless you cooperate with us, you will feel nothing but pain for a long, long time. However…”

The guard trails off, weighing the little black remote before pressing the glowing orb against the side of his neck. He winces, the side of his neck extremely tender, for some reason.

“This little black box controls your freedom,” the guard says, smiling innocently as he pulls it away. He shows Keith the front of it; the three, different colored buttons and the small, circular scanner. “Currently, there’s a chip embedded deep in your neck, as small as those little things in your mouth.”

At Keith’s confused expression, he grabs him by the jaw and forces his fingers inside of his mouth despite the struggle Keith put up. His breath hitched in his throat when he felt the guard grab one of his far molars. He hoped, at first, that maybe he had grabbed a baby tooth and would be doing Keith a favour, but he didn’t have any baby teeth left. If the guard took it to show him, it would be gone forever. Unfortunately, he kind of needed that tooth.

Suddenly, the grip tightened and in a fit of desperate panic, he flinched away, trying to stop him from ripping out his tooth, but the hand didn’t budge. His tooth, on the other hand, did. He cried out, the sour tang of iron suddenly filling his mouth as the top of his mouth burned with pain.

The guard slowly pulled his hand out of Keith’s mouth— Keith would forever deny the sob of relief it brought forth— with a smug grin on his face.

When he finally caught his breath enough to actually look at the guard, the first thing he saw was the bloody tooth.

Losing consciousness had been a blessing he could only obtain for a few seconds before he woke to a burning face and a sick grin. He gasped sharply and loudly, grimacing at the warm blood filling his mouth and spilling out, mixing with the blood that had dried on his cheek.

“Now, now,” Oh, god, the guard was still holding his tooth. Bile rose in his throat, stomach churning. “I wasn’t finished, Paladin—“

“What?” He snapped, all sense of calm gone out the window because he was still holding his fucking tooth.

The guard frowned, raising the remote threateningly, but Keith simply stuck his chin out in defiance. He would not break, not if it meant the lives of his teammates; his family.

“I like you,” he says, lowering the arm holding the remote. Keith breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s a shame that you’ll be broken soon, though, Paladin. Now, back to what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted;

“The chip is about this big,” he said, gesturing to the tooth still held between his fingers, “It can and does track your location, shocks you if I so wish, and if the other Paladins find no one to pilot the Red Lion and come for you, well…” he traces his thumb around the yellow button, grinning. A chill runs down Keith’s spine. “It can kill you, too. Gruesomely.”

In that moment, Keith swears his heart stops.

Even if he were to be rescued by his friends, he would die before they could even get him out of his fucking cell, because there’s a chip in his neck that can kill him. Even then, the guard could keep him alive and track him, therefor making him a danger to his own team. He couldn’t let that happen.

Fuck.

“Of course,” he starts up again, and god, Keith wants to smash his face into a wall and then rip out his throat with his bare hands. “If you were to cooperate… I could see about having that pesky little thing removed.”

Keith glares at him, swirling around a wad of blood in his mouth.

“What do you say, Paladin?” No. “Will you cooperate?”

The guard gets a little closer, grinning, about to speak up again, but Keith spits the blood at him before slamming his forehead into the guard’s.

He yells loudly, backing up immediately and clutching his forehead, a nasty glare on his face as he raises the remote again. Keith simply smirked, despite the fact that they would probably shock him half to death again.

He would never join them.

“You ungrateful brat,” the guard snaps, using his other hand to wipe the blood off of his cheek. Before he could offer some witty remark Lance would praise him for, the guard’s hand shot out, striking him across the face. If not for the fact that he was chained to a chair, he might’ve fallen down from how hard it was.

The hit left his ears ringing and he breathed sharply through his nose, trying to ignore the pain tearing through his cheek and mouth. The slap had only increased his cuts’ pain.

The second he opened his eyes, he saw the guard’s hateful expression and everything went black as electricity coursed through his veins.

—=—

They’ve been by a few times, now. Each time, it’s the same routine; get insulted a few times, get shocked, refuse to answer questions, get shocked, do something to bother him and fall unconscious without being woken up.

From what he’s been able to count, they bring him food twice a day: once at what he assumes is night, and once during what he assumes is the morning. There’s no way to tell for sure, but so far, he thinks a week has passed. They’ve brought him food and what he hopes is water, even if it’s dirty, at least sixteen times so far, which… that should be a week, right? He’s never been too good at math.

There’s a degrading insult each time, and the food is just tasteless slop, but at least it doesn’t have a taste. The insults, however… as much as he wants to pretend they don’t bother him, the comments are slowly starting to sting.

Since he’s been captured, he’s only let himself think about his family twice. If he daydreams about being in the Castle, he’ll give, and he can’t do that to them. He’s been nothing but relieved since he found out Pidge wasn’t here and that they were alive, but… some deep part of him wishes to be with them; to be home.

Sometimes, the guard— he’s learned his name is commander Vartox— promises him sweet nothings, fills his head with thoughts of being free to try and get him to break. One time, when he was delirious with pain and just wanted it to stop, he almost did. Almost.

He’s cracking, and he hates it.

He hopes they come soon, but he knows they won’t. It’s useless to want something.

—=—

Shiro told him once that falling into routine was dangerous; that somewhere along the way, they would slip up, and the progress they made would be ruined, while they were training in the Garrison’s gym and Shiro had him pinned, completely immobilized.

That and patience yields focus were the only two things that truly stuck with him, over the years. It was good advice.

Because of that, he never fell into a routine when fighting again. It kept his enemies on their toes.

Which is why he waited by the wall they always came in through. They made the mistake of keeping up a routine for too long; he could take them by surprise and run. Where; he didn’t know, but that wouldn’t stop him. He’d try to contact Voltron and tell them about the chip before trying to escape. He knows he’ll be caught, but he at least has to try.

Do or do not, there is no try.

That stuck, too.

—=—

They don’t come that day.

They’re trying to fuck with his head, but it won’t work.

It won’t.

—=—

They don’t come again.

Not for food, not to torture him.

He hasn’t seen them for a while, but he has been hearing them. Whispers of a captive that used to be a Paladin. He sees glowing eyes in the corner of his cell.

It’s not real.

He’s starting to see things.

—=—

They dump a tray of food in his cell. The slop spills over and onto the floor, but that’s okay. He wasn’t going to eat it anyways.

He just needs the water, and thankfully, that stayed upright.

—=—

The glowing eyes mock him from the corner.

He’s starting to think that leaving him alone was starting to work. He wants nothing more than to be touched again, talked to, even if it’s from his captives; even if it’s torture.

He doesn’t know why this is killing him, either. He spent a year alone in the desert, thinking his brother was dead. Why is this so much harder, when he knows Shiro’s alive and looking for him?

Because they’ve abandoned you, the eyes from the corner whispers.

He doesn’t sleep that day.

—=—

He’s starving the next time they drop food into his cell.

They don’t bother with a plate this time; they dropped a spoonful of slop onto the floor, and rolled a bottle of clear water towards him.

He chugs it in under a minute, which definitely isn’t good for him, but god, he hasn’t had real water in so long.

As for the slop…

He doesn’t trust this dirty cell, but he knows he can’t go much longer without food, even if they’re treating him like some animal.

Swallowing down any pride, he crawls towards it, and scoops some into his mouth.

(He cries himself to sleep that night, thinking about the time he didn’t think twice about accidentally breaking a plate on the Castle).

—=—

“Wake up, pest,” someone snaps, a sharp pain bursting in his side.

He wakes with a gasp, curling into himself even more. He grimaces, forcing leaden eyes open to see what the stupid guard wants.

Wait, the guards.

Tears began to well in his eyes and he sniffles, forcing himself onto his feet with shaky limbs. At first, he had tried exercising, but the habit slowly fell when he was too exhausted to move.

Commander Vartox reaches out quickly, securing heavy, thick cuffs around his wrists before linking an even heavier chain around them. He winces at the weight, unable to hold them up properly. The weight pulls on his shoulders as they hang in front of his stomach, but it’s nothing compared to trying to hold them up.

“What—“ he rasps, as Vartox begins to pull him along. Three sentries follow behind them as they leave the cell and he frowns, swallowing hard. “What’s goin’ on?”

Vartox answers him with a sharp tug to his wrists, making him lose his balance and nearly sending him careening into Vartox’s back.

He rolls his eyes but trails slightly behind him— close enough that he won’t trip trying to catch up, but far enough that he’s not close to Vartox.

They arrive at what must be their destination shortly after, because Vartox slows to a stop, and hands the chain to one of the sentries while he punches something into a keypad beside an automatic door.

He watches, confused, as Vartox beckons the sentries in behind him when the door opens. They drag him along and he goes willingly, not quite ready to be shocked, yet.

(He missed being around people, captives or not).

“So far,” Vartox starts, as the sentires attach his chain to a pedestal. The chain goes taut, keeping him close to the pedestal. He doesn’t like where this is going. “Voltron has destroyed two of our bases, while missing a Lion, and a pilot. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not many— perhaps negative one percent— but it’s enough to warrant a punishment, and since we can’t kill Voltron…

“You’re our next best option.”

Keith feels himself stop breathing as he watches Vartox pull out a metal rod and a whip from seemingly nowhere. The end buzzes with electricity and he swallows hard, trying to back away. The chain stops him.

“Now,” he starts, circling him with the pipe held tightly in his hand, snapping the whip through the air to scare him. It works. “You could avoid their punishment, if you do one of two things.”

Keith swallows hard. It’s supposed to be an easy decision, but… That’s a whip, and he’s been through so much— wouldn’t they understand, if he told them? “And… and what’s that?”

“Tell Voltron to stop fighting.”

“No,” it slips out of his mouth easily enough, and he sighs heavily. What was he thinking? He’ll put up with this, if it keeps the Universe safe.

“Or, if you answer our questions.”

He sticks his chin out and debates spitting on him, but he doesn’t want to lose another tooth.

He hears the whip come down more than he feels it.

—=—

By the time he’s returned back to his cell, his ribs and thighs are bruised to the point that they’re a mirage of colours, and his back has been dyed red from all of the blood that fell from the whips.

He can barely stand on his own; barely sit.

When they dump him back in, not removing the cuffs or chains, he doesn’t move. Breathing brings pained tears to his eyes.

If he had just done what they wanted…

No.

No.

He won’t give. He won’t break.

(He wants to).

—=—

One day, when they leave him alone for days on end, again, he sees Shiro.

He wakes up one day to see Shiro lurking in the corner of his cell, eyes glowing a cruel violet instead of his normally calming storm gray eyes. He’s relieved, of course, and he would be rushing to his feet to get to him if it didn’t hurt to breathe.

“Shiro,” he croaks, eyes welling with tears. It only takes a second for them to spill over. He reaches out with one arm, wincing sharply at the pain it sends down his torso, but he needs Shiro. “Shiro..?”

“You’re a disappointment, Keith.”

Shiro fades.

He’s left with a dark cell and tears staining his cheeks.

He knows Shiro was fake. He knows that, so then why did that tear his heart in half?

—=—

Lance is the next one he sees.

He snorts, wondering what kind of photos they got to project these holograms. He knows they’re not real; they should stop trying.

“Keith, buddy,” Lance starts, and Keith grimaces at the loud voice. His head has been pounding for forever, and his nose was so congested he was forced to breathe out of his mouth. “I— We’ll get you home. I promise.”

Then the Lance comes over and reaches a hand out, and he promptly passes out.

—=—

When he wakes up again, he’s in a very bright room.

Hope seizes him— could this be the Castle? Did they finally come save him?

Then he sees Vartox’s face, and tears pool in his eyes.

Of course they didn’t. They don’t need him. They never needed him.

“Haggar needs a new part to test on,” Vartox explains as a druid appears before his eyes. His heart stops and he freezes from where he had been previously struggling against the energetic cuffs pinning him to the table. “The Champion’s limb has finally run out, and we’re out of Terrans, but fortunately…”

Vartox caresses his cheek again, in the same spot he had cut him those first few days, and Keith lies still, petrified. This can’t be happening.

“We have another arm right here. How fitting would it be if the Pilot of the right arm of Voltron were to lose his right arm, hm?”

The druid approaches, magic sparkling from it’s fingertips, and Keith screams.

He screams as the claws dig into the middle of his bicep, he screams as the pain burns through it, he screams, he screams, he screams.

No one comes.

The only comfort he gets is unconsciousness.

—=—

He wakes up in pain and dizzy.

His arm throbs in time with his heartbeat, and even with his eyes closed he’s getting some serious vertigo. His back and ribs sting with no remorse, and his thighs are sore as hell. Not to mention, his entire body is still sore from shock after shock after shock after shock.

He groans, but doesn’t move; if he moves, he’ll be in more pain, and he doesn’t want that, right now. He’s been hurting for too long, now.

Eventually, though, he finds the energy to peel his eyes open.

What he sees shocks him: he’s not in his cell.

Come to think of it, as he looks down at his wrists, he’s not cuffed, either. Both the cuffs and chains are gone.

Looking around, he sees that the room has decent lighting, but not enough to disturb his headache. The walls are a pale blue with dinosaur stickers on them, and… this is some serious deja vu he’s feeling.

There are glow in the dark stars on the roof, and toy cars littering the floor. A table is crammed into the corner of the room, with colouring books piled on top and a small chair pushed into it.

With a frown, he looks at what he’s laying on; it’s a bed. A real bed.

He sobs in relief, clutching the thick, soft blanket a little tighter. He hasn’t been off of that stone floor for so long.

He takes a long, deep breath, ready to slide further under the blankets and sleep for a pong time, before realization dawns on him. This blanket smells like his dead dad, and this room… this was his bedroom when his dad was alive.

What’s going on?

“Hey, kiddo,” Someone says. Their voice is deep and husky, with a slight rasp to it. There’s a thick texan accent, and he hasn’t heard this voice in over a decade.

“...Dad?” his voice cracks on the words as he looks to his left.

Like he had hoped, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed is his dad, dawned in his brown jacket, white tank top, and dirty jeans. His face is the same, if a little more wrinkled, but his smile. His smile is the exact same; still as bright as the sun itself. It still fills him with the joy he felt all those years ago.

“Dad.”

He sobs, and despite the pain, flings himself into his dad’s arms. His dad accepts him happily, and the second his dad reciprocates the hug, the pain goes away. It all goes away, because his dad is protecting him again and nothing can get him while he’s here—

“I love you, kiddo,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Keith sobs again, his face squished against his chest. “I’m sorry I can’t take care of you. I’m sorry I can’t keep you here— safe, but it’s not your time.”

Fear takes hold of Keith, and doesn’t relinquish it’s grip. “What?”

“You’ve gotta go back,” his dad says, sounding resigned, and Keith shakes his head, tears leaking faster than before as he holds tighter.

“No, no, dad, please, I— I d-don’t wan—“

“I’m sorry, kiddo. You’ll be out of there soon, okay? I love you.”

“Dad, please—“

“Goodbye, kiddo.”

“Dad!”

—=—

He blinked, and his dad was gone. His bedroom was gone, and so was his hope.

The pain and the cell, though; those were back and as mocking as ever.

He slumped against the wall, the cuts on his back flaring in pain, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Let it hurt.

What was the point of fighting if even his dad had given up on him?

—=—

The first time he realizes that his arm is truly gone, replaced with a glowing hunk of metal, he screams his throat raw. It’s followed by the worst panic attack he’s ever had.

He’s missing his arm.

His arm.

How will he provide anything to Voltron now? The right arm of Voltron missing his right arm. How ironic.

—=—

He thinks he’s becoming friends with the glowing yellow eyes in the corner of his cell.

—=—

There’s a growing stack of slop near the door. He can’t bring himself to move

—=—

There’s two unopened bottles of water beside him, lying on their sides. He took a sip from one. The rest is still there.

—=—

He wants to die, if that’s what it takes to get out of this place.

—=—

He hasn’t seen Vartox in a while.

Vaguely, he wonders where Vartox went.

...Hopefully he’s dead.

—=—

He wakes up, and his throat is itchy; a clear sign he’s coming down with a fever. His head pounds painfully behind his eyes, and every other minute he feels the urge to sneeze. Only half of them come out.

At first, he wonders why he’s sick so suddenly, but then he realizes that the torso to his undersuit is basically gone, and the wounds on his back haven’t been cleaned at all.

Though… now that he thinks about it, he does have two nearly full bottles of pure water. He could use that to clean his back.

...But that also requires moving, which he doesn’t have the energy for.

Instead, he closes his eyes and hopes for sleep.

—=—

“Are you ready to talk?”

Keith gingerly peels his eyes open, ignoring the shining, glowing metal that’s replaced his arm. He blinks slowly at Vartox before staring back down at the ground.

Voltron isn’t coming for him.

Why should he protect them, if they didn’t protect him?

“Castle runs on Balmera crystals,” he rasps, shame burning hot in his chest. He wishes he didn’t give in so easily, but he can’t do this anymore. He lost his arm trying to protect them, and they couldn’t be bothered to try and stop it.

Vartox grins wickedly, lowering the black box. “Anything else, pest?”

He shakes his head slowly, ignoring the tears that are slowly sliding down his cheeks. He watches them splatter against the ground with too much interest. “Not that I know of. After… after the battle, I think we were goin’ to… Xamar?”

“Now,” Vartox starts, as boots enter his field of vision. Vartox crouches before him and he raises his eyes, sniffling. “Was that so hard? Maybe if you had spilled a little earlier, you would still have your arm.”

His response is a pitiful sniffle and looking back at the ground.

—=—

He cries himself to sleep that night, wishing more than anything for his brother.

—=—

He should never have been a Paladin.

He was never worthy enough for the title. He just gave up their location and weakness to spare himself from some pain.

Vartox was right. He is worthless.

—=—

“Keith.”

He groans, frowning and burrowing his face further into the cold, hard ground.

“Keith.”

“I don’ have anythin’ else for you,” he whispers shakily, pressing his flesh hand to his face. He sniffles and barely suppressed a sneeze, a shudder running down his spine. “Please, I— I told y’ what y’ wanted t’ know, I— I—“

“Keith, it— it’s Shiro. It’s me.”

Keith knows better than to open his eyes, this time. He doesn’t want to be disappointed again.

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers, and— wow, a dead giveaway. Shiro never swears. This isn’t him.

(He hates himself for hoping that it was, deep down).

“Guys, Keith doesn’t— he doesn’t recognize me. He’s in bad condition, too— Just bad, Coran— no, he— just make sure a pod’s ready, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

There’s a beat of silence before something warm slides beneath his knees and shoulders.

His eyes fly open and he screams at the pressure on his wounds. The pressure is gone almost immediately, followed by a string of apologies, but then it’s back and so is the pain, and—

Electricity sparks.

—=—

He wakes to a burning face and strapped to a table.

Paralyzing fear takes hold of his chest and he inhales sharply, trying to stop himself from having a full blow panic attack. He shouldn’t be here. Shiro had rescued him; he had felt the warm pressure of his arms against him before pain overtook his senses.

How is he still here?

Wait. That’s how.

Of course it was another realistic fever dream; what had he been thinking? He was foolish, stupid, and pathetic to think that it was anything other than that.

“Rise and shine, pest,” Vartox’s voice rang out, suddenly. He looked around slowly, bile rising up his throat as he noticed two druids standing by the doorway. The part of his arm where flesh connected with metal burned with recognition.

He couldn’t lose his other arm. He couldn’t.

He jerked against the restraints holding him down, air leaving in him desperate erratic gasps. No matter how hard he pulled, though, the restraints held fast. His wrist is being rubbed raw with the effort, but he can’t stop or he might lose his only arm.

Throughout the entire ordeal, he can feel them watching him, and when he manages to look up, he sees that he wasn’t wrong. Their faceless masks stare at him, unrelenting, from the doorway.

They must find this funny.

“Calm down, pest,” Vartox says, appearing into his line of sight. Keith bristles at the sight of him. “Nothing is going to happen to any of our body parts until Haggar runs out of her current one. We need to preserve you.”

Slowly, Vartox rested his hand over Keith’s forehead. He tensed at first, but slowly relaxed into it; it brought him a sense of comfort. The warm touch made his eyes droop and he relaxed, sighing softly. All of his defenses crumbled, and deep down he knows this is just an act to get him to stop fighting, but… This isn’t so bad. Fake as it is, it feels good.

“There, there,” he says, softly, smoothing his claws over Keith’s eyebrows. It feels so nice. “All they want is to run a few tests. It will be over soon.”

“They’re not… my arm..?” He trails off, unable to make himself voice it. He can’t.

“Your arm will be safe, pest. They’re going to run a few simple tests, and then you’ll be returned,” Vartox assures him, his hand a warm, comforting presence on his forehead. “You may rest, if you’d like.”

His arm burns with pain as he’s dragged back into the realm of sleep.

—=—

Like Vartox had promised, he’s not missing his arm— or anything— when he wakes up.

Not only that, but his back doesn’t hurt anymore, and his fever is gone, too. Unfortunately, though, his rins and thighs stoll throb painfully, and looking down, he sees a new slice across his stomach that was stitched up. It must’ve been another test they ran, if the dried blood around it has anything to say about it.

If it means his infected wounds are gone, he can handle magic healing his cuts. It’s not like he hasn’t before.

...Maybe they aren’t so bad after all.

—=—

He should’ve stopped hoping a long time ago.

Voltron is never going to come for him.

—=—

Once he starts to fully cooperate, Vartox stops hurting him.

He should’ve given in sooner: maybe Vartox wouldn’t have hurt him to begin with.

—=-/

When his daily portion of slop comes in, it’s an understatement to say he’s shocked.

Instead of the normal dump and leave— the pile of slop had something akin to flies buzzing around it, was up to his knees, and his cell smelt like three things had died then had a baby together— Vartox shows up holding a tray with food that looks actually appetizing. His stomach grumbles loudly in anticipation.

“You’re changing cells,” Vartox says, as he approaches. He grabs the chain attached to the cuffs and pulls gently. Keith takes the hint and climbs to his feet, thighs shaking with pain and legs with exertion, “This one is disgusting.”

Tears sting his eyes and he odd, grateful. He doesn’t hesitate to follow when Vartox starts walking.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Something in him shatters.

—=—

His new cell is a lot nicer than his old one.

Unlike the old cell, there’s a bed in the far corner. It doesn’t look very comfortable, but donned with a blanket, a very small pillow, and a new set of prisoner garb. As insulting as it is, Keith doesn’t feel it in him to be offended.

There’s a small table in the center where Vartox is setting down his tray of food. It smells and looks better than the slop; he hopes it tastes better, or even has a taste.

On the plate, there’s a thick, diamond slab of something pink, covered in a bright blue liquid. Beside it, there’s a lump of something brown with red specks littered throughout it. A blue cup of a green liquid sits beside it. It doesn’t look horrible.

“You’ve been good,” Vartox explains, at Keith’s bewildered expression. “I’ve decided to reward you for your behaviour.”

Keith feels a small, shocked grin plaster onto his face. He made Vartox proud.

(Why does that feel so good?)

“If you keep this up,” Vartox starts, moving back towards him. He grabs Keith’s arms gently, then presses his thumb to a dark green screen that links them together. There’s a loud beep that makes Keith wince but then the cuffs clatter to the ground. “I may be able to get that chip out of your neck. Do you understand?”

Keith nods.

Vartox grins before he moves away, towards the cell’s barred door.

“Good boy.”

—=—

The food Vartox gave him tastes vaguely like pancakes and sausages. The drink tasted a bit like diet coke.

He misses pancakes.

Maybe, if he’s nice, Hunk can try to—

No. He’s never going back.

—=—

He’s exploring his new cell when he notices it.

There’s a body mirror next to the door, and he sees himself for the first time in what must be decades.

His once shoulder length hair was now down to his elbows, slicked back with grease and looking like a rats nest. Most of it was clumped together with blood, and there was a streak he was too scared to touch because it’s moving.

His bangs only hang in front of his chin, thankfully, and when he pushes them back, they stay.

Where there used to be muscle and a bit of fat, there’s only skin and bone. His bicep— the stump of his arm— is covered in thick scars until it attaches to the metal. Bile rises up his throat. He tears his eyes away from the arm and keeps looking.

Scars criss cross across his back and sides. There’s a small, thin scar on his cheek. He wonders where it came from. They aren’t pretty; most of them are jagged and thick, still pink and fresh. The only white one is the one on his face.

A bit of stubble has grown on his chin in spots. He’s not surprised he doesn’t have a beard, he was never able to grow more than a bit of spotty stubble.

His eyes are a lot more dull than they used to be, but… he doesn’t exactly remember what they used to look like.

Vaguely, he realizes if he weren’t so broken, he’d have punched the mirror. He’d have cut up his hand, he’d have bandaged it with the blanket and spat his captors faces.

He just stares, now.

Dull eyes stare back.

—=—

He ignores the mirror the next time he wakes up. He’s beginning to treat it like his metal arm; like it was never even there.

This time, he doesn’t bother with getting up; he’s seen all there is to see. The cell isn’t very big; if Keith laid down, he could probably touch one wall with his feet and the other with his hands.

He lays in the bed, blanket held tightly in his fists, against his chest. He stares at the ceiling, breathing slowly.

Sometime during his stare off with the ceiling, the door opens. A guard sets down the same type of meal on the table, then leaves.

He doesn’t eat that day

—=—

The next time he wakes up, he has a splitting headache, and his neck is sore.

He chalks it up to not eating, but doesn’t fix it.

He sleeps.

—=—

“I’ve had the chip removed,” Vartox’s voice rises him from his slumber and he hums slightly, turning to face him. “It’s why you might have felt some pain two quintants ago.”

He nods slowly, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He forces himself into a sitting position, facing Vartox. “Bad headache. M’ neck was sore, too, but nothing else.”

Vartox frowns, but doesn’t do much else. “I’ll make sure the druids see to it.”

Keith nods.

Vartox stares at him for a few more seconds before sighing deeply and taking his leave.

The cell door doesn’t click behind him, like it normally does.

The chip is gone. The door is unlocked.

If he really wanted to, he could go home.

—=—

(Some part of him registers that this is home, now.)

—=—

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t want to be punished if he gets caught, and where would he go?

Voltron doesn’t want him back.

—=—

“Keith.”

He groans, curling further into the blanket he was given. He doesn’t want to get up just yet.

“Keith, wake up.”

He screws his eyes shut tighter.

He hears a deep sigh before the voice begins again. “Crap, okay, okay… Keith, buddy—“

Wait.

That’s Shiro’s voice.

What did he do wrong, if he’s hearing Shiro again? Hadn’t Vartox assured him he was being good, just the other day?

Maybe he’s hallucinating because of the lack of food. He hasn’t eaten in… how long has it been?

“...back to Black.”

Oh, right. The Shiro he hallucinated was talking.

He should probably eat, but he’s so tired, and he doesn’t want to hope when he sees Shiro’s face.

—=—

He wakes up to a hiss of cold air, and far too bright lights.

He grimaces, squeezing his eye shut and whining low in his throat. The lights in his cell were never this bright; why did they decided to change it now, after he had been there for so long? He was perfectly fine with the dark cell.

(Was it really even a cell, anymore? The door is unlocked, and the chip is gone. He can leave, but he doesn’t.)

“Keith, can you hear me?”

This again?

Wait— he never ate. It’s probably still a hallucination.

“Keith, it— it’s me, it’s Shiro,” ‘Shiro’ sounds choked up, like he’s about to cry. “You— You’re home.”

Home doesn’t exist anymore.

—=—

 

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAHHHHHH
> 
> it hurt writing this and i almost puked when the tooth came out
> 
>  
> 
> in part three, we see the after math and different POV’s :)
> 
> yes, keith really is home. third times the can :)
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed!!! see u soon
> 
> EDIT: charm. third times the charm.
> 
> EDIT 30/06/19: this is taking much longer than expected. it will be out, for certain, sometime in the next month. sorry for the inconvenience, but i promise its coming D:


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